Whoa.

So much blue sky. So many towering clouds. 

Looking up has been glorious these past few weeks.
Here are a few reminders that it pays to look down, too. 

 

Beautyberry. So aptly named.

 

Sidewalk shadows

 

Fallen maple

Flowers of remembrance

 Family and friends shared those blooms with the woods, in memory of a dear one who brought so much beauty and love into this world. Her memory will be a blessing.

In the cool of the evening on this very first night of fall, my overgrown front garden called to me.

I’m a fifteen-minutes-spent-weeding-is-better-than-none kind of person, and I gently yanked until it got too dark to tell the keepers from the weeds.

I’m tolerant of many uninvited plant guests — I have birds to thank for some amazing purple asters blooming right now. 

There is one pesky thistle, though, that I wish would stay away. 

Tonight, I reached deep into the grasses to uproot one, and the prickles bit my fingers, even through the gloves. The motion stirred the lavender, and I breathed in the heady, heavenly scent.

Pain. Beauty. Sometimes you find them in the same place.

Sound circle

During the hottest, soupiest summers around here, one of my dear aunts used to say, “This is the worst weather for murder.”

I don’t think there’s any good weather for murder, but we knew what she meant.

On Friday, Chef Nature finally turned off the burner on the soup, and yesterday I got the chance to eat breakfast on our front porch. 

It was a simple spread: egg, bagel, milk and coffee (made every morning by my husband). I read a bit of my latest mystery.* A light breeze lifted the scent of lavender. Our wind chime chimed. Song sparrows sang.

I may become a morning person yet. 

Ask me on Monday.

---

My latest mystery is "The Fellowship of Puzzlemakers" by Samuel Burr. A perfect porch read.

Time for another installment of: It Helps When You Can Make Yourself Laugh.

Here’s a (very partial) list of things my eyes and mouth have tripped over:

In the grocery store, I turned down the aisle with boxes of those small, single-serve packages of pretzels, popcorn, chips, etc. I looked up and saw the sign:
                
“Poisoned snacks” 

“That’s frightening,” I thought, before rereading: Portioned snacks. Whew.

—
Glancing at a friend’s phone numbers, I noticed one that’s obsolete, and thought:
 
“I should delete it. That’s their land mine …”

Better not drop that one.

— 

Spotting a shot of the Seattle skyline on TV, I remarked:

“Oh, it’s the Space Noodle.”

(If it’s cooked, they’re really in trouble.)

—

Finally (at least for now), while flipping channels I spotted an odd title for a reality show:

“Vatican House Rules”

I must have had popes on my mind when I read that wrong. Sorry to disappoint, but the show features a real estate expert helping homeowners “unlock their vacation property's full rental potential.”

The Vatican has not joined airbnb.

They're back!

After years of leisurely flirting with fall, or rushing ahead to hang out with spring, winter took its job seriously this time around.

I can’t remember when I saw so many lows — and sometimes highs — in the teens. And don’t get me started on those “feels like” temperatures. (Do we really want to know?)

All of which explains, a bit, why I waited until last week to take down our Christmas lights. I froze on the front porch while I worked, but it was way past time.

This Christmas past I made the switch to artificial greens. We’re storing them in the garage, and I wanted to label them somehow, so I'll know which piece to swoop where come December.

I thought about my notes for how to string the lights. “Facing the street, start at left corner near the window ...” That makes sense to me, but it seemed a bit wordy for a label on the greens.

I asked my husband if he had any ideas.
He paused and said, “I would use east and west.”
Oh, I laughed … and should have guessed.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that men tend to give directions using those compass points. Unfortunately, unless the sun is rising or setting at that moment, I don’t have much chance of knowing which way I’m supposed to go.

Throw me a landmark, please!

Turns out science has noticed it, too. A brief Google search turned up references to about a dozen studies exploring that navigational difference between the sexes.
 
I finally made those labels today: “Left: window to stair post,” etc. Commonsensical landmarks, at least for my brain.

Together, my husband and I stashed them in the garage … on the north side.

Marriage is all about compromise.

Another Christmas has been unwrapped, but before the night ends, I thought I’d share one of my favorite family stories.

I first published this in 2014, and it still makes me smile.
—

Each year as I pull out the ornaments for our Christmas tree, I smile when I come upon a yellowed receipt from the old Hechinger hardware store.
 The fading numbers tell a story that has become a Kress family legend, a tale of persistence, wisdom and one amazing deal.
 It was Dec. 21, 1998, and the sun had long since set. (I know this because the receipt reads: 12/21/1998 19:35:53.)
 As happens to many parents of young children, we still weren’t quite ready for all things Christmas that year.
 So it came to pass, with just a few nights to go, we piled the kids in the car and took off in search of a Christmas tree.
 Our first stop was a traditional one: a local firehouse that sold trees as a fundraiser. Sadly, we found their doors shut; no tree to be had.
 Next we tried a local high school that had sold trees in the past. Again, no luck.
 On we drove to a nearby produce store, known for bounteous supplies of all things green. Alas, they, too, were closed.
 Feeling a bit desperate, we assured our son, 11, and daughter, 8, that indeed, a tree would be found.
 I can’t remember who thought of Hechinger’s, but that’s where we headed next. During the drive over we heard these wise words from our son in the back seat:
 “Maybe next year we shouldn’t wait so long to get the tree.”
 Ah, yes. That does sound like a plan.
 The good news was that Hechinger’s doors were open, and they did have Christmas trees for sale. We found a small pine that spoke to us (“Take me home!”), and I heaved a sigh of relief.
 While my family headed to the car with our tree, I went in to pay. The sign above the tree said $3 plus some cents. I figured it was the price per foot, and did the math: 5-foot tree, $3 plus … roughly $20. Not bad at all.
 The cashier rang up the sale and said:
 “That’ll be $2.65.”
 “What?” I said, a bit confused. “Are you sure?”
 “Yes. They’re on sale.”
 Amazing.
 That little Scotch pine (again, the receipt fills in the details) served us well, and we happily decked it together in time for Christmas.
 Days later, I noticed an odd green/blue tinge on some of the branches. On closer inspection I could see that it was paint. As in spray paint. Apparently our evergreen needed a little help to live up to its name. (And who among us doesn’t, now and then?)
 So there you have our most excellent Christmas tree adventure. Such is the stuff of family legend, a story told and retold fondly.
And worth so much more than $2.65.

 

Let there be lights.

Winter reintroduced itself to us yesterday in classic fashion:
“Remember me? Snow, ice, temperatures in the 20s? It’s been awhile.”

The good news is that the shortest day of the year is behind us, and we get to keep the sunlight a little bit longer. The sun set at 4:38 p.m. yesterday. Today it held on until 4:39!
I’ll take all the light I can get, especially since November.

Now here’s a thought:                

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

There’s light in those words, spoken in the 1960s by Martin Luther King Jr. and inspired by a sermon given in the 1850s by Theodore Parker, an abolitionist minister. Both men were inspired by earlier writers, and by testaments new, old and even more ancient.

So, yes, the arc of the moral universe has been bending for a very long time.

Almost two months have passed since the election here, and I’m grappling with the feeling that the arc may slam into a stone wall. I will leave political analysis, autopsies and strategies for other writers. That's not why I'm here.

When I started this blog, I wrote in my profile that I "look for momentary joys." I’ve rethought — and reworded — that sentence today, because I realize it’s not quite true. I don't look for momentary joys — they’re already all around me. I just have to notice them.  

That’s why I’m here.

To that end, I’ll share a few I noticed recently from behind the wheel:

• Driving west on my way home from work, about an hour after sunset … Trees stand like sentinels in the lingering light, bare branches reaching up against a sky of dusky blue.

•  Cresting a hill in twilight … I slow, then stop my car for a gathering of suburban deer. A doe stands solidly in the middle of the road, looking calmly, and directly, toward the headlights. Three or four young ones mill around her, then trot up a hilly yard to the left, heading to the nearby woods. Spotting four more cautious types in the trees to my right, I creep slowly down the hill to let them cross in peace, and rejoin the party.

• Mid-morning, pulling out on a small side street … I spot a squirrel — and a flash of red — bounding across the road just ahead. I squint. What is that hanging from its mouth?

          'Tis a festive coffee cup, complete with white lid.

           I guess even a squirrel can use a coffee break — especially when you're hauling around something almost as tall as you are long. Impressive.     

---

As we wrap up 2024 and head into the great unknown of 2025, may we all find light, hope and joy  — and not lose sight of that arc.